THE MONK HABIT - Original Poem - 100 Days of Poetry Challenge Day # 2

zeleiracordero (67)in #steemitschool • 6 years ago (edited)

Greetings, Steemians!
Today, on DAY 2, of this great challenge, I present to your kind consideration the following poem to continue the process of growth in this art, accompanied by you, as a force and impulse not to faint in the attempt. I appreciate @ d-pend for your beautiful words of praise in the publication corresponding to DAY 1, here (in if you have not read it) and, in addition, having considered me, to begin the challenge, with the intermediate level. In this opportunity, I suggest this music.

THE MONK HABIT

Circumspect specter that drags lambskin
being a promiscuous pimp of an Ondina,
inhabitant of the shadows that burn mines,
exposing in the assault to the scene, the appearance.

Cobble that simulates a perfect composition
in a biting instant where the fortune teller tempts him,
to tear the dressed position that holds,
For the reason of the audience pleased and complacent.

Habit does not make any monk better
nor does it take away the desire of the crouched wolf.
The exterior only gives the tint of the image
for those garments of the enchanted charming.

The monk is an assembly puppeteer
soft and weak light that oscillates between the disguise of Ormuz,
exalted by Zoroaster or dying on the cross,
with which it communicates as a show of glamor.

Those who like the usual suit as a price,
Adjust the known belt, by sight,
not the real essence that I do not give, undressed
regardless of imposed conveniences of the fool.

Those who fix their gaze and heart on rags,
they lose the reality of honest exchange,
the vision of the universe anchored in a kiss,
the magnificent skin that lax dreams wear.

We are all cosmic and fiery dresses.
We all carry inside the divine spark,
that which well envelops our life in a lunar aura.
We all wear fresh light and we are source.

We need to create it and give real value
to the careful brilliance of an aura alciona,
that is before a plenilunio that evolves
towards the immeasurable conquest of the great grail.

EL HÁBITO DEL MONJE

Circunspecto espectro que arrastra piel de cordero,
siendo promiscuo proxeneta de una Ondina,
habitante de las sombras que escarcean minas,
exponiendo en el asalto a la palestra, el fuero.

Adoquín que simula perfecta composición,
en instante mordaz donde el zahorí lo tienta,
a rasgar la vestida posición que ostenta,
Por razón de complacida audiencia y confusión.

El hábito no hace que ningún monje sea mejor
ni le quita las ganas al lobo agazapado.
El exterior sólo da el tinte de lo mostrado
por esas alcorzadas prendas del encantador.

El monje es un titiritero de ensamblaje
suave, débil luz que oscila entre el disfraz de Ormuz,
exaltado por Zoroastro o morir en la cruz,
con la cual comulga como muestra de bagaje.

Los que gustan del habitual traje como precio,
Se ajustan el cinturón conocido, por visto,
no la real esencia que no entrego, desvisto
sin importar impuestas conveniencias del necio.

Los que fijan su mirada y corazón en trapos,
pierden la realidad del intercambio honesto,
la visión del universo anclado en un beso,
la magnífica piel que visten los sueños laxos.

Todos somos vestidos cósmicos y ardientes.
Todos llevamos adentro la chispa divina,
esa que bien envuelve en aura lunar nuestra vida.
Todos vestimos de fresca luz y somos fuente.

Falta que lo creamos y demos valor real
a la esmerada brillantez de una aura alciona,
que se arroba ante un plenilunio que evoluciona
hacia la inconmensurable conquista del gran grial.